


jeune guerrier

by deacertes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deacertes/pseuds/deacertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt over on the meme asked for a roughly seventeen year old Aramis to impress Treville with his calmness and compassion during a battle, even though the young man is obviously overwhelmed. Treville also gets an indication of his ability to be ruthless when necessary. After it's all over, Aramis breaks down and Treville talks him through it. (Title change - formerly Soldier Boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	jeune guerrier

_Just one more time before I go_  
_I'll let you know_  
_That all this time I've been afraid_  
_Wouldn't let it show_  
_Nobody can save me now, no_  
_Nobody can save me now_

_~ "Battle Cry" Imagine Dragons_

 

Treville's voice is hoarse from competing with musket and canon fire, but he continues to shout orders at his men until white hot agony lances through his thigh and the world tilts sideways. 

He finds himself on his back, staring up at an expanse of cloudless blue sky, trying to breathe through the pain. The brightness is abruptly blotted out by a silhouette, as a figure leans over him. Tensing, he instinctively reaches for a weapon and his wound screams in protest, but his fingers find only grass and he clutches at it uselessly.

He blinks, waiting for this new wave of pain to subside, trying to focus on the person hovering over him.

The instant he does he wonders if he isn't dead after all. Though it takes only a moment for him to dismiss the ridiculous notion that he is looking at an angel.

He notes that the young man's face - framed by a riotous mass of curls and dominated by a pair of intense, dark eyes - lacks even a hint of downy shadow. Still, this is hardly the first boy to find himself on a battlefield.

Treville is in no position to lead anyone to safety. They need not both die here, however, and he orders the boy to leave him before they are both overrun.

"No, sir."

Treville frowns, taken aback by the blank refusal. The young man is examining his wound with surprisingly steady hands.

"We need to stop the bleeding."

The young man follows this announcement by reaching inside his coat. He unrolls the leather on the grass beside him, and from it he selects a needle and some thread.

Treville ignores the steady throb of pain in his thigh and attempts to sit up.

The young man 'tsks' in displeasure before clamping the needle between his lips so that he can assist. Then he finishes threading the needle.

"Do you always carry a needle and thread with you into battle?" Treville asks.

"I find that is when I need it the most."

There is a grim, determined set to the young man's mouth, and he doesn't so much as flinch as musket ball flies past. Close enough that Treville thinks he can feel the air part in its wake.

He grabs a handful the young man's clothing and tugs sharply on it.

"Keep your head down before someone blows it off your shoulders."

The young man glowers but hunches lower, putting the needle between his lips once more as he uses a knife to slice open Treville's breeches. He pours the contents of a small flask over the exposed wound.

Treville cannot stifle a sharp gasp. Whatever that was, it wasn't water.

The young man mumbles an apology around the needle. A furrow of concentration marks his brow as he checks the wound for cloth and other detritus before he prepares to stitch it closed.

Treville can see now that the musket ball doesn't appear to have entered his leg; its passage has gouged out a deep groove above his knee which is bleeding profusely. The grass is already dark and sodden with it.

"What's your name boy?" If he must die here, he would know the name of his would-be saviour. He is amused to see the boy's mouth tighten and draw down at the corners. Clearly this would-be saviour resents the implication that he is a callow youth.

"Aramis."

The thread tugs at the edges of the wound, and Treville's next breath hisses through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," Aramis says again.

"No, you're doing well. Please. Continue."

More than well; considering they were sitting on a battlefield.

Aramis' hands remain enviably steady as he carries out his task. It is left to an exasperated Treville to occasionally reach out and remind the young man to keep his head down, as musket and canon fire continue to erupt around them.

The young man finishes tying off the thread. Treville offers up the use of his own sash to bind the wound.

"We cannot remain here," he tells Aramis.

"My stitches might not hold," Aramis points out.

"Then they can be redone, once we are safe. Now help me up. And keep your fool head down." Treville is surprised by the sudden flash of white teeth as Aramis grins in response.

Once he is more-or-less upright and the blood has stopped singing in his ears, Treville worries that Aramis' slender form will not support him as they stagger forward. However, what Aramis lacks in bulk he clearly makes up for in sheer bloody mindedness. Even when the youth's face reddens with the strain and his muscles quiver, he manages to keep them both moving forward.

Which is fortunate, since all of Treville's focus must go on staying conscious. He dare not divert it anywhere else.

He has no idea how much distance they have covered. Sweat runs into his eyes and trickles down his back. The noisy rasp of his own breathing fills his ears. Every step jolts his leg and makes bile surge in the back of his throat. He feels his strength fading, bit by bit.

When Aramis pauses, Treville does not know whether it is to get his bearings or to catch his breath.

"Do you... even know... where you are going?" he asks.

"I thought I would head away from the fighting," Aramis replies, cheekily.

Treville bestows a dark look upon the young man but he saves his breath for walking as they set off once again.

After a while his chin drops toward his chest. He is losing the fight against the gut churning dizziness that threatens to drag him under.

They stop again, but this time he senses tension in his companion, Treville forces his head up to see what has brought Aramis to a standstill.

Five bodies lie on the ground ahead of them; the victors stand close by. Unfortunately, the three number among the enemy.

Aramis takes a step back, but they have already been spotted.

Treville feels strangely calm as he considers how best to keep their attention on him. He glances sidelong at Aramis.

"Run."

Aramis ignores him.

Treville shoves the younger man clumsily. "I said run, boy."

Finally, Aramis seems to heed his words as he relaxes his grip. But Treville's heart plummets when he realises the young man is only lowering him to the ground.

"No, no. Run, you fool." He pushes at Aramis' legs, but his efforts to get Aramis to abandon him are in vain.

Aramis spares him a brief, irritated glance as he steps out of reach and draws his pistol. "I would appreciate it, sir, if you could refrain from hitting me for the next few moments."

Treville gapes in angry disbelief, but this feeling is replaced by alarm when he sees one of their attackers taking aim at Aramis.

"Get down!"

His warning shout is drowned out by the echo of a pistol shot. He checks Aramis anxiously for a wound, and finds himself bewildered by the young man's cocksure grin.

"My turn, I believe," Aramis murmurs.

The pistol ball ploughs through the man's left eye socket. He is dead before he hits the earth.

The other two pull up sharply, their confidence shaken. However, the realisation that Aramis will not have time to reload restores their courage and they continue to come forward.

Aramis has already dropped his pistol and drawn a sword and a dagger in readiness.

Treville amazement at the young man's skill is tempered by an awareness that this fight is far from over. He hopes Aramis isn't reliant on his firearm and can use the the weapons he holds in his hands.

It is soon apparent that Aramis has considerably more than a modicum of skill with a blade. In addition to which, he employs whatever other tactics yield results - biting, head butting, kicking.

Treville refuses to lie idle. He drags himself across the ground, ignoring the pain radiating from his leg. His fingers close around the discarded pistol; since he cannot reload it, he instead hurls it at the closest antagonist.

It connects with the man's head and he staggers; Aramis takes advantage of this momentary loss of awareness to skewer his opponent through the chest, before twisting his body and slashing his dagger across the throat of the remaining man.

Aramis watches the man clutch uselessly at the gaping red maw, blood spilling out between his fingers. When he crumples to the earth, Aramis makes the sign of the cross before putting up his weapons and hurrying over to Treville. A relieved grin encompasses his entire face and his eyes shine with exhilaration as he drops down onto one knee.

"You have my gratitude for your timely intervention, sir. Though I hope you have not torn your stitches."

Treville draws on a hitherto untapped well of strength and punches the young idiot, sending a surprised Aramis sprawling backwards. He sees anger flare briefly in those dark eyes before it is replaced by a rueful smile as Aramis carefully manipulates his jaw.

"I fail to see what I did to merit that."

"You cannot, really?" says Treville. He struggles to contain his anger. "You ignore my orders. You risk your damn, fool neck taking on three men-"

"-And in doing so, saved your life," says Aramis.

The flippant, reasonable tone shreds Treville's last nerve. "I do not care for you to save my life at the cost is your own."

The bright gaze dims slightly. "I must disagree, sir. You are infinitely more valuable. I am but a lowly foot soldier, after all."

The hint of self-mockery leaves Treville confused anew by this young man with the face of an angel and the outlook of a seasoned soldier.

Still, a battlefield is no place for contemplation.

"Help me up," he growls.

That infuriating grin makes a reappearance as Aramis slips an arm around Treville and hoists him upright.

Treville tries to help, but his limbs refuse to co-operate. His world narrows to the dull thud... thud of his heart in his chest.

This changes when they finally stagger into the surgeon's tent and he is instantly assailed by the stench and the noise. He bites his lip to withhold a groan as they set him down. Hands stained with the blood of countless men reach for the sash binding his leg, but Aramis is already there.

"I can do that."

Aramis unravels the cloth and exposes the wound to the surgeon's keen eye.

"Who stitched this?" the man asks brusquely.

"I did," says Aramis, quietly.

The surgeon makes a noise that could just as easily be approval as disapproval.

"Well, there's not much point me wasting my time re-sewing it, providing of course they hold." He looks toward the tent's entrance as two men enter, carrying a third between them.

The injured party is perhaps even younger than Aramis and as they lie him down on a makeshift pallet he cries out for his mother and begs them not to let him die.

All those present can see that it is inevitable. The lower half of the young man's body is a bloody mess. The wonder of it all is that he can speak, or that he continues to cling to consciousness.

Treville thinks it might have been a kindness to end the boy's suffering on the battlefield.

The men who brought him in have already left. The surgeon looks tired and old as he peels the terrified boy's fingers from his clothing, but there is nothing he can do here, and he has other patients to attend to.

The boy's cries increase in volume as his lifts his head from the pallet and looks at his wounds.

Aramis moves swiftly to his side. Treville watches him grasp the boy's bloody fingers, curling his own around them.

"Don't look. Don't look," he tells the boy firmly.

"Please... I... don't... want... to ... die," the boy gasps wetly. "God, please... "

Aramis places his free hand against the boy's cheek. "God is waiting for you."

The boy emits a loud sob of denial and shakes his head.

Aramis holds the boy's terrified gaze, his own expression strangely calm.

"Do not be afraid. I will stay with you until it is time."

The boy continues to weep, but it is softer and less desperate than before.

"Would you like me to pray with you?" Aramis asks gently.

"P-please."

Aramis moves his hand from the boy's face and tugs a simple rosary out from beneath his shirt. He draws it over his head and wraps it carefully around their joined hands. Then he kneels.

Treville catches the occasional word of the prayer Aramis murmurs in fervent, flawless Latin.

At one point the boy's body arches from the pallet and he makes a hideous gurgling sound as he shudders through the pain. Aramis' voice falters briefly but he doesn't pause or pull away, and the boy sinks back down. His tears stop and he falls quiet, save for the noisy rattle of his breath. Eventually, that too fades to silence.

Aramis bows his head for a moment, before very carefully unravelling his rosary and placing it back around his neck. His fingers leave behind smudges of blood. He rises slowly to his feet and makes the sign of the cross. When he turns Treville sees his face is starkly pale, the dark eyes seemingly devoid of emotion. Aramis says not a word as he walks briskly from the tent.

Treville looks around him in agitation. He spies a discarded crutch on the far side of the tent.

"You. Bring me that," he snaps at a young man carrying a bucket of water.

The young man stares at him, round-eyed.

"Sir?"

"The crutch. Bring me the crutch," Treville growls, stabbing a finger in its direction.

The young man responds to the authoritative tone. He leaves his bucket and scurries to fetch it. He hold it out uncertainly.

"Do you need help, sir?"

"No," Treville snarls. He tries to stand and fails. "Yes, damn it all. Get me up."

The young man helps him to his feet and positions the crutch for him. Treville gives him a terse nod that is both thanks and a dismissal, and the young man backs away gratefully.

Treville grits his teeth and moves forward. He has to stop after one step, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain explodes behind his closed lids. He pants and forces them open. He takes another step. It doesn't hurt any less, but he is somewhat prepared for it.

It seems to take forever before he emerges into the brightness. His tension ebbs when he spies Aramis. Slowly and carefully he makes his way over to where he is standing. It is only when he gets close that he realises Aramis has been sick.

"Aramis?"

The young man wipes a visibly shaky hand across his mouth before he turns.

"Sir?"

Aramis' voice is watery and his eyes suspiciously bright, but his cheeks are dry as he stands stiffly to attention.

Treville tries to adjust his awkward grip on the crutch and staggers. Aramis reaches for him, but neither of them are able to prevent his descent, and he is obliged to let go of the crutch when it becomes apparent he will need both hands to brace himself as he falls.

He strikes the ground and his next breath lodges in his throat. There is a brief moment when he considers letting the darkness take him. He coughs and gasps, dragging in noisy gulps of air, and gradually the agony recedes. As it does, he realises he is lying on his side with Aramis pressed up against him. It feels horribly awkward, and he is about to pull away when he realises that Aramis is crying.

Treville cannot see his face, and he makes scarcely any noise. All the same, Treville knows. It is in the way Aramis curls toward him, clutching fistfuls of coat, fingers loosening and tightening as he shakes. He clings to Treville like a child caught up in a tempest. Treville has never been good at this, but he offers what comfort he can. He manages to work a hand free and uses it to rub slow circles between Aramis' shoulder blades.

Eventually, the tremors ease. Aramis keeps his head lowered as he draws away and sits up.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"There is nothing to apologise for," says Treville, pushing himself up onto an elbow "Or do you think you are the first man to weep in the midst of a battle? Because if so, I can assure you that you are not."

"I shouldn't," Aramis mutters.

Treville is still addressing the crown of his head. "Why? Are you better than other men?"

That brings Aramis' chin up sharply. "No, of course not, but I-"

"-led a wounded man off a battlefield. Fought and killed three more, and eased the passing of another," says Treville. He moves the conversation swiftly along from the boy's death. "You saved my life today. I don't believe I have thanked you for that."

"There is no need-" Aramis begins.

"There is every need," says Treville. "I may be a soldier, but that does not mean I am eager to die. No doubt my wife would thank you also."

"You are married?" says Aramis, in obvious surprise. Colour rushes into his face; he quickly offers an apology. “My pardon, sir. It is none of my business."

"Don't be a fool," says Treville. His wound is making him irritable and this meek, penitent Aramis rouses his ire for some reason. "I told you, did I not?"

Aramis nods.

"Well then," says Treville, gruffly. "Now, how about you make yourself useful and take a look at my leg, I believe I may have torn some stitches."

Aramis' mouth thins in dismay. He quickly confirms that several of the stitches have broken and the wound is bleeding freely again.

"We need to get you back to the surgeon."

Treville shakes his head. "You still have your sewing implements?"

"Well, yes-"

"Then you do it."

Aramis looks bewildered. "But surely, the surgeon-"

"-Need not be troubled for the sake of a few stitches. You did well enough before."

"Not good enough. Or they would have held."

The self-loathing in Aramis' voice causes Treville to frown.

"The fault lies with me. I doubt any one's needlework could weather such abuse. Just sew the damn thing up again and I will take more care to remain upright."

Aramis hold his flask out. Treville takes a few long swigs before passing it back. He presses his fingers into the cool, damp earth and breathes harshly through his nose while Aramis works. In the distance they can hear the sounds of fighting - the loud, echoing boom of cannon fire and the fainter noise of men and horses.

Finally, Aramis ties off the thread.

"You should probably still go back to the tent and let the surgeon take a look at it."

"You can help me back to my own tent," says Treville firmly.

Aramis doesn't argue with him, thank God. Treville has no desire to return to the surgeon's tent, to lie surrounded by blood and flies.

He is sweating and shaking by the time they reach his tent. Even so, he insists upon sitting in a chair beside the bed pallet, waving away the young man's concern with a scowl.

"I'll not faint and fall, if that is what troubles you."

Aramis looks far from convinced. "If you will pardon me for saying so, sir. You have lost a lot of blood. It might be better if you were to lie down."

Treville shakes his head. "I cannot fight, but that doesn't mean I will lie useless. Now, hand me those." He gestures to his writing instruments. However, when Aramis gives them to him, he finds his hands are shaking too hard for him to grip the quill.

"Perhaps I could be of help?" says Aramis.

"Can you write?"

Aramis nods.

"Good. Sit there and write what I tell you." Treville nods at the bed pallet and waits for Aramis to settle himself before starting. After a few lines he glances across to verify the quality of Aramis' penmanship. He is getting used to being surprised by this young man; all the same, the elegant flowing script causes him to pause.

"Where did you learn to write like that?"

The quill hovers over the paper.

"I attended a seminary for a time," says Aramis, quietly.

"You wished to enter the church?"

"My parents wished it." Aramis glances up from the piece of paper he is holding. "But God it seems, had other plans for me."

"How old are you?"

"Does it matter?"

Treville’s lips quirk as he struggles to suppress a smile. "No, I suppose not."

Aramis’ attention returns to his task and Treville continues. He is loath to admit it, but he is starting to feel lightheaded.

“Do you still have that flask?”

Aramis looks up and frowns at what he sees. Rather than hand over his flask, he sets down his writing tools and hastens from the tent before Treville can demand to know where he is going.

He returns a short time later with a bucket of water, which he sets down beside the chair. Filling a cup, he ignores Treville’s trembling hands and deep scowl, holding the vessel steady while Treville drinks.

“Slowly, or you will be sick,” he cautions.

Treville continues to glower at Aramis as he drinks, but he cannot deny that the water tastes good. Once he has drained the cup, Aramis takes it from him and dampens a cloth, using it to cool Treville’s face and throat. He tries to bat the young man away, but Aramis refuses to be deterred.

“You have lost too much blood. You risk developing a fever. You need to drink and eat, and rest,” Aramis adds firmly. “Surely there are others who can take over your duties for you?”

“The men under my command are _my_ responsibility.”

“I understand,” says Aramis, “but what good will it do them if you neglect your own health? If you want to stand and fight with them again, you must rest now and recover your strength.”

Treville glares.

Aramis stares back without flinching.

They are at an impasse; however, Treville has not got where he has by being a fool. He knows the young man speaks sense.

“Very well. I will follow your advice and lie down for a while before I resume my duties. Does that satisfy you?” Treville asks, dryly.

“If you agree to eat something when you wake, and not to take up your duties until your head no longer aches. Yes.”

“How did you know that my head troubles me?”

“You are squinting, and you have rubbed your temples six times in the past hour.”

“I thought you attended a seminary. Or are you a healer too?”

“I merely pay attention,” says Aramis.

Treville grumbles wordlessly, but he allows Aramis to help him out of the chair and assist in the removal of his coat, boots, and scabbard. His pistol and sword, he realises with a pang of regret, are out there on the battlefield, lost when he fell.

His stomach lurches unpleasantly when he is moving to lie down; though it settles quickly once he shuts his eyes and remains still.

“I will take me leave then, sir. Unless there is anything else you require?”

“Thank you, no.”

There is the faint rustle of movement as Aramis heads toward the tent opening.

“God keep you, sir.”

Treville opens his eyes, intending to offer a response, but Aramis has already gone.

******

The years drift pass. Treville takes great care in selecting men for the newly formed musketeer regiment. He reads reports and recommendations, he tours the barracks and listens to personal accounts.

On this day his gaze finds a familiar face, haloed by curls. Treville searches his memory and smiles.

“Aramis.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ponygirl for her editing and advice!
> 
> jeune guerrier ~ young warrior


End file.
